


ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë

by valinorbound



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, shameless feel-good fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valinorbound/pseuds/valinorbound
Summary: He knows love. And he’s never thought it possible.





	ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elevenelvenswords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenelvenswords/gifts).



> for elevenelvenswords - I still don't know why I felt like writing this. Anyway, I hope life is going good :)

There was music in the Beginning.

A scream, a dance, the world flooding into life beneath their feet.

There was music at the End, or what he thought was the end; a different song, powerful, dark and bleeding with malice. It was Melkor’s end, Morgoth’s beginning.

Music was the creator; a tool. A mere practical entity with the sole purpose of creation; raising mountains, sinking the seas into the earth. It built worlds and ground them to dust.

He’d stared in wonderment at the Eldar way back then, dancing through the paved roads of Valinor, finding a joy in music that Melkor always struggled to understand.  
Once he had seen the power a few notes can hold, there’s no way he could find simple emotion in a song - no fleeting bursts of gladness or sorrow, no brief enjoyment of the harps of the Vanyar.

Now, though, he knows something different.

He stares at the Maia, _his_ Maia, whose head rests against Melkor’s armoured shoulder, golden hair flowing down to his chest as he sleeps.  

He knows love. And he’s never thought it possible.

 

* * *

 

Mairon wakes to the music.

It’s the elves, in the dungeons of Angband; they sing of freedom and the light of the stars. It’s a bittersweet harmony that echoes off the walls of the fortress, those Quenya words finding their way to suppressed memories in his head.

He’s lying on his side, draped in furs, by a window in the Eastern tower. This place is perhaps the one he loves the most, so high up he can almost touch the clouds. Sometimes, in mid-winter when the sky hangs low to the ground, the droplets of cloud seep through the windows and fill the room with a chilling mist, clearing his mind of the fire and blackened smog.

A shadow stands with his back to Mairon on the other side of the room.

He stares at it, at the silken black cape that never shines, no matter how bright the sun and the moon. The shadow looks somewhat vulnerable as it stands without a crown, his imposing air diluted by the absence of the light of the Silmarils.

 

Melkor turns from the window. His eyes soften a little and he smiles, moving across the room to silently place a hand on Mairon’s cheek.

“Join me?” Mairon says as he leans into the touch and tugs on Melkor’s sleeve.

Melkor sits beside him without a word.

The music swells a minute later, and although he would never admit it, Mairon feels a spiral of emotion. There’s something about the notes of the past combined with future hope that leaves him almost longing for an age gone by.

“What’s wrong?” Melkor asks, looking down with concern.

“Nothing, it’s-” he replies with a smile that he’s not sure is genuine. “It’s beautiful.”

Melkor, of course, knows exactly what he means. For a moment, Mairon panics - reminiscence of the past is frowned upon in any circumstance, and this certainly qualifies as such. Delicate songs of peace and a weak sadness are a world away from the marching drums of Angband’s forces.

He’s somewhat relieved when Melkor turns to face the window and listens.

“It is,” he mutters, and leans into Mairon a little more.

 

He knows they’re happy to lie there until the sun rises, with nothing but the wind and the music of the Thrall-Noldorin to distract them from each other’s company.

 

“Do you miss it?” He asks eventually, looking up at Melkor with a wary gaze. They’ve never been ones to talk about the past, let alone _missing it._

“What?”

“You know - Valinor? Just… the peace,” he mutters. “It was easy.”

“I do,” Melkor replies, without missing a beat. “Some parts of it, yes - others, not so much.”

“The music?”

“Of course I miss that,” he says in a small voice.

 

Their voices drift into the wind as they both fall silent, letting the sounds wash over them. Mairon can’t help but let his mind wander to where those words came from; he tries to stop himself from remembering. His life is here, at Melkor’s side. There’s no other place in Arda he belongs.

 

“Come and listen,” Melkor says, standing up and holding out one hand as the other unfolds a crease in his cape.

Mairon smiles and holds out his arm, letting Melkor pull him upright and guide him to the window as he shakes the sleep out of his eyes.

The music is stronger here. He hears every piercing high note, feels chills run down his spine as the harmonies blend into one another; there’s a lump in his throat as it floods his heart with thoughts of Tirion.

It’s unrelenting. The tower seems to glow as the melody reaches new heights, igniting a spark in the air that fills the room with an unexplainable flame of desire and passion, a flame that’s hot and yet so cold with loss.

He wants nothing more than to let it consume him.

The mist on the ground swirls across their feet. As the music roars, the light of an origin unknown ripples like tendrils of fire, upwards and down, curling around the pair as they draw slowly together.

“Mairon,” the shadow whispers at his ear. “Will you dance with me?”

He threads his fingers into Melkor’s blackened hand, tenderly pulling it forward and letting it rest at his side.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says with a smile.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the title translates to "and all paths are drowned deep in shadow", which I thought was poetic and possibly relevant
> 
> i wrote this pre-umbrella academy, so any connection to 'Allison Hargreeves, will you dance with me?' is entirely unintended


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